


hi hungry I'm dad

by fitzefitcher



Series: red wolf & blue lion [7]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father-Son Relationship, Feral Behavior, Gen, Grooming, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 09:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzefitcher/pseuds/fitzefitcher
Summary: becoming earthwarder, even temporarily, leaves its marks on thrall. they grow stranger by the day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> from tumblr, @p-3a: "i know im super late but: something about wrathion&thrall and thrall having black dragon traits and weird orc parent and"
> 
> weird dagron dad a go go  
[originally written january 2014]

Their first meeting goes okay, all things considered.  
  
There was never a chance of it not being awkward, but then again, this sort of thing isn’t really typical to begin with; waking up a couple days after the maelstrom’s been taken care of with the beginnings of horns and a tail rarely is. So Thrall goes to Wrathion, because he’s got nobody else to really talk to about this, and the horns are starting to move up from tiny nubs poking out of his hairline to actual, legitimate horns.  
  
The guards at Ravenholdt aren’t too happy to see him, but they let him in anyway, so Wrathion’s decided not to be hostile, at least. In particular, there is a human man with olive skin and copper hair who is thoroughly unimpressed by him, but he still leads him up the staircase where Wrathion supposedly is. He knows, instinctively, that this man isn’t actually a man, that he’s like him, somehow. He isn’t sure what to do with that, particularly when the man growls at him when he first lays his eyes on Thrall, and Thrall… growls back, for some reason. Not an orcish growl, either, a deep and thunderous sound that rumbles through him from the earth. This is supposed to be a warning, he knows somehow. Reluctantly, the man stops, and bows his head, exposing his neck while he rolls his eyes like he hates that he’s doing this, and Thrall apparently rumbles with approval and forgiveness.  
  
Well. That’s different.  
  
Wrathion, to his credit, holds composure for about thirty seconds, long enough for Thrall to explain what was happening, miraculously, before his pupils grow comically large and rounded, and he approaches Thrall slowly, slinking guiltily towards him like a child that knows it’s misbehaved. Thrall is about to ask Wrathion if something is wrong, but Wrathion beats him to the punch by opening his mouth and a series of high-pitched chirps coming out. Thrall apparently loses what semblance of cognitive sentience he has, because the next thing he does is crouch down to Wrathion’s level, nuzzling the side of his face and the same deep rumble emanating from his chest, though less a warning like last time and more of reassurance. Thrall has no idea why he’s doing this; it’s just sort of happening. Wrathion noses into the nape of his neck, producing a similar but much higher-pitched rumble, before abruptly regaining his composure and jerking away from him. He’s pretty embarassed, suffice to say, and Thrall isn’t sure why he isn’t. It’s. Really concerning, actually.  
  
“Does being given the title of earthwarder mean that I’m going to become a black dragon now?” he asks.  
  
“Apparently,” Wrathion replies, miffed. “Well, probably. Most likely, you’ll become something inbetween.” Thrall sighs. That’s fucking great.  
  
“Do you and him…” He points over his shoulder to the man that led him in. “…see me as Deathwing now?” Wrathion flinches a bit at the name, evidently not having fully regained his composure, and Thrall suddenly wants to pick him up and put him in a hidey-hole somewhere, where he’ll be safe. He frowns at this.  
  
“More-or-less,” he replies. “Less that you’re Deathwing himself and more that you’re the rank that he previously held. Though you’ve been untouched by the corruption of the old gods, so there’s that at least,” he adds, a sarcastic smirk forming on his face. Thrall drags a hand down his face exasperatedly.  
  
“Is there anything we can do about this?” he asks a bit pointlessly.  
  
“The transformation? I’m not really sure,” Wrathion admits. “But I can help you manage your… newfound instincts, at the very least.”  
  
His pupils still take up most of his eyes, and he’s still looking at Thrall with something starving in his expression. Thrall isn’t sure that he believes him, but he’ll take what he can get.


	2. Chapter 2

The claws are concerning, but not nearly as much as the grooming, he learns.

His visits with Wrathion are no longer new, but they are becoming frequent, and manage to find new ways to surprise him each time. This time, apparently, when he goes to ask about how to deliberately dull or shorten his new and admittedly frighteningly long claws without hurting himself or others (and that wasn’t even addressing the brown-black scales starting to grow up his arms or that his legs had up and shifted into something digigrade overnight), he learns that apparently when given the right motivation, he can be still be as gentle and careful as he was before having them.

Wrathion is about halfway through explaining how a regular nail file is just fine as long as he’s careful when Thrall notices a lock of dark, curled hair peeking out of his turban, and not even thinking, he carefully tucks it back in. Of course, this is about the time that Wrathion turns bright red, face flushed with embarassment as his pupils predictably blow up, and Thrall, who had thought himself better than this by now but is apparently wrong, rumbles inquisitively as he leans down and smells just above Wrathion’s head, trying to detect if something is amiss.

It’s really, really fucking obvious what’s amiss when the moment passes and he realizes exactly what he’s doing, backing off with an exasperated apology. But then Wrathion chirrups, actually chirrups at him, and well, then he’s just done.

He finds himself and Wrathion sitting on the floor twenty minutes later, and he’s carefully, carefully running his claws through Wrathion’s surprisingly long hair like a comb. Wrathion is quietly rumbling and half-asleep, and of course this happened, because why wouldn’t it, at this point.

Thrall sighs deeply like a put-upon parent, because that’s what he is, apparently, and continues.


End file.
